


We All Have a Place We Belong (We All Have a Role to Play)

by xenosicarius



Category: The Beatles (Band), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, an understanding of TMA and Eleanor Rigby is nice by not necessary, and I guess it technically complies with the song too?, cw/tw will be in the end notes of relevant chapters, it takes place during S4, still cannot believe the character tags on this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26262304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenosicarius/pseuds/xenosicarius
Summary: Ah, look at all the lonely people!...The Archivist stumbles upon a old diary while cleaning. Determined to unravel its secrets, he ends up discovering two narratives that have already been curated by someone else.How many people have heard this tale? How many already knows how it ends? Perhaps this time,he thinks,things could wind up differently.However, he is naive to think that tales like these could ever have a happy ending.(Inspired by that one tumblr post,you know the one).
Kudos: 7





	1. Jonathan Sims

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that if no one else was going to write this fic, I would have to. What a burden placed upon my shoulders.  
>   
> As I said in the tags, you don't need to have any knowledge of The Magnus Archives; some of the larger concepts may be difficult to grasp, but since it is horror, not immediately understanding something may prove an interesting experience.  
>   
> I would recommend giving _Eleanor Rigby_ by The Beatles a listen to at least once though, but you don't have to do a deep dive into the history or structure (I've already done that for you). In fact, you can find it (and two covers) on a playlist inspired by this fic [ here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2a1lKtOGHaRkUlznvkIdOW?si=ZqhjpDGoSuWLPzycSkh2nQ).

The archives are unusually quiet for a Monday.

The only sounds in the room belong to an old clock and a weary man, who sighs as he leafs through brittle paper.

While the gentle ticking of the clock would normally be soothing, today Jon finds he would rather hear a knock at his door. Gazing up from the pile of loose statements, he wonders—for just a moment—why no one has come to bother him yet today. The answers appear immediately in his mind: _they are distrustful of you… they hate you… they would rather be with someone else_.

Jon slams his fist down on the table and pushes his chair back. There are more important things to do than wonder about what nonsense his assistants have gotten up to without him.

Today he is cleaning the archives, digging through all the statements that Gertrude Robinson left in disarray. Certainly there was an order to all of this—the precarious towers of boxes and ramshackle shelving units. Gertrude seemed to know everything about the Institute and its plans, and those were secrets she wanted to take to the grave.

The archives were not in a state of dishevelment due to incompetence, but rather by design.

And Jon was going to crack its code. Slowly but surely, he was digging deeper into its mysteries, rooting out the truth. For once, he was going to be ahead of his predecessor.

Walking the shelves, Jon thumbs through a few boxes. _Avignon, 1907_. _Roanoke, 1590_. _Chōshū, 1867_. Centuries of horror and he wades through them in seconds, deciding which to read, to relive. A monster among monsters.

Suddenly feeling lightheaded, he steadies himself. His hand knocks over a box and its contents scatter across the floor. Cursing, he tries to scoop them up but stops, spotting something under the shelf. He leans forward and retrieves a journal from its dark recess.

Well, what once was a journal. Now, the bursting tome is tied together with a strap of aged leather and a gold chain.

Many of the pages are yellowed, some more than others, like varying shades of beach sand—or smoker’s teeth. Jon bites his tongue, remembering the habit he has kicked a dozen times. Although, perhaps cigarettes are better than what he consumes now.

Kneeling on the cold tiles, he slowly unravels the cord, discovering the chain is in fact a necklace. He holds it up: a gold cross hangs from the center.

Looking down at the first page, he sees Gertrude’s slanted handwriting and sighs. Every record he finds of her research feels like a jab at his ego, his drive. He’ll still learn something, however; he always does. Standing, he returns to the table, careful to ensure the pages do not slip from his grasp, from his scarred hands.

He skims Gertrude’s note. The journal was found in an old stone cottage in Ballinspittle, County Cork in 2001, when renovators pried up a kitchen floorboard to see it nestled in the dirt. It appears to be a collection of two diaries, assembled together sometime after the two individual writers’ deaths. The order of the pages was maintained—Gertrude unwilling to go against the compiler’s wishes.

Jon looks back towards the shelves. There should be a recording somewhere to accompany the artifact. An old tape with Gertrude’s voice, mocking him from decades past.

On second thought, he’ll record this one himself. The steady ticking of the clock above the door agrees with him: what else shall he do with his time?

Placing the necklace gently on the table beside his tape recorder, Jon pulls the first sheet from the stack. He looks up at the door a final time, anticipating—and perhaps hoping—that there would be a gentle knock, followed by the sight of two large hands carrying cups of tea.

There is nothing; his work can continue undisturbed. He clears his throat before proceeding.

“Statement of Ciarán McKenzie regarding his appointment to the Holy Trinity Church and his subsequent involvement in the death of Eleanor Rigby. Original statement given as a series of diary entries in September of 1966. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jon, I wonder who he was imaging was bringing that tray of tea?  
>   
>   
>    
> _In the future, trigger/content warnings will be placed here (and italicized) in the end notes, with a mention at the beginning of the chapter. This will factor in during the later chapters, although not heavily. If you are uncomfortable with particular types of violence/phobias, please be sure to look at the end notes before reading the chapter. If not, then simply continue to read at your leisure. ___


	2. Father McKenzie

_9 th of September 1966_

_I cannot help but believe that today’s goings-ons has underscored all feelings I have had since my arrival to Ballinspittle._

_It was categorised by a dawn, frigid and filled with a mist thicker than any I have previously seen. As much as I had believed it would consume me whole, it lifted to allow for a morning of laughter and love, as I officiated my first wedding since coming to this quiet village. A thankful reprieve._

_And while neither of these events appear incredulous on their own (as I have lived my forty-odd years on these isles and Cork is no different than that of Kilkenny), I felt that I have not yet been privy to the true nature of my parish—to the sorrow that has brought me here._

_This suspicion deepened this afternoon as I stumbled upon a single figure, destitute in the sun. Béal Átha an Spidéil has been without a Father for too long, and I fear that in one’s absence, the children may have forgotten one another._

_At last, it appears I may have finally found my calling here…_

* * *

The sun was brighter than it had been in the days prior; a good sign for the young couple. While the priest had never quite believed the superstitions surrounding weddings (he had presided over enough to know their success lied in the patience of the lovers), even he had to admit the day looked promising.

By now, the newlyweds would be toasting to their future and feasting with loved ones, enjoying their time with one another. Ciarán looked over the wooden pews, which an hour before had been filled with emotional guests. The Holy Trinity Church had been bustled with activity, far more than it had been since his arrival.

From behind a pew, Tommy poked his head up, waving a single white glove.

“Father McKenzie, someone left this behind!” He held it gingerly between his fingers, not wishing to tarnish the expensive fabric. “I wonder whose it is.” He stared in wonderment at the lace around the edges.

Ciarán chuckled at the boy’s inquisitiveness. He had shown up at the church’s door in the early days of Summer, asking all sorts of questions about the father and his arrival.

Through Tommy, he learned that the previous priest, Father McCartney, was not a forthcoming or particularly kind man. It took months before the diocese even became aware of his disappearance; the parishioners continued their lives without him.

“Tommy?” The boy had silently slipped his hand into the glove, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “Tommy, my boy, that’s Mrs. Shea’s. Please take that off and go run it over to her.” Ciarán had noticed the older woman dab her eyes with it during the ceremony, too caught up to realize the handkerchief was in her other hand.

“She should just be…” He trailed off, his thoughts becoming trapped behind the glass pane, as he gazed out the window. His eyes found a hunched figure, pawing at the ground. Leaning forward, his face screwed up in concentration, he noticed they were picking up individual grains of rice.

From his position, Ciarán could see the bent spine and a large shawl pulled over the head—from the size and shape of the body, he figured it was an older woman. She would bend forward, her thin fingers gingerly plucking a piece of rice from the ground, and then deposit it within her apron. He watched her repeat this process, the words of his teachings encircling his mind: _Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to do it._

“Father McKenzie!” Ciarán turned to see the boy, startled by the shout.

“Yes, Tommy?”

“You were telling me where Missus Shea would be?” He held up the glove to emphasize his point.

“Ah, of course. Take a right when you reach the bend down the way; you should be able to hear the music.”

Tommy nodded and ran off. Ciarán was quick behind, his hand holding the door open after the eager child rushed through.

However, the elderly woman was gone. Only trace grains of rice remained in front of the church—evidence that a wedding had taken place there, but nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calm down Ciarán, it's just Enya grabbing a bite to eat.


	3. Eleanor Rigby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke being Enya was 5 in 1966.

“Statement of Eleanor Rigby regarding her last summer alive in Ballinspittle, County Cork. Original statement given as a series of diary entries in the Summer of 1842. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement continues.”

* * *

_13 May 1842_

_Dearest diary,_

_Mark your calendar for to-day was the day! The day ol’ Eleanor’s life changed forever!_

_I could feel it the moment I awoke (Aisling did not speak once in her sleep; no mention of Aidan, if you can believe that!). With the rest, I could feel something wicked growing inside me, begging to be let free._

_I swallowed its venom whole as my family dressed up all pretty and neat for the sad wedding of Uncle Dillion. Or maybe it was a happy funeral for Aunt Siobhan. The only difference between the two is the type of hat Mamaí wears upon her curly head._

_And oh did that hat blow away from the steam of her anger! Because I did it—I planted my big feet into the ground and stood up for myself. Her hair was fire and tongue liquid silver, but alas! I survived._

_Turns out God adores a simple sinner, for not more than twenty minutes later, I saw her there, among the wild grass. Let it be known, my most ardent follower, that I am not long for Ballinspittle, for it has outgrown me, and only the lovely Daisy can now mature by my side…_

* * *

The grass tickled the inside of her legs as she ran, furious and free, through the fields. She let out a screech, a battle cry for lost time, and tumbled forward through the high grass. Nestled between the blades, the symphony of crickets harmonized with the beating of her heart—a rhythmic _thump-thump-thump_ against hundreds of insectoid strings.

It felt like a summer night. Temperatures warm enough to linger outside as the sun set, but the wind ensured that she would not overheat in her heavy dress. The weather had been fair since the morning. A perfect day for a wedding, her mother had said.

Eleanor’s stomach soured at the image of the wicked woman that barged into her mind. Think no more of that beast! This young woman would be her own guardian; no more banshees to haunt her life.

The buzzing of a winged pest in her ear brought Eleanor shooting upward, burrs snug in her black hair. Rising up (and making sure to get as much grass on her best dress as possible), she continued her stroll.

Further ahead, the grass rose up higher, engulfing all who entered and spitting out only a series of chirps from within. In the distance, the forest loomed, a formidable foe to any wayward traveler. To the maiden, however, it looked like a way forward. One step beneath the bows of trees and she would be free.

A vicious squawk rang out from below the distant canopies. Swooping down from above, a lone magpie trailed its way towards her. Landing before the high rise of wild grass, it tilted its head at the solitary girl.

She tipped her head in response. Still full of adrenaline from the encounter with her mother, she nearly stuck her tongue out, but thought better of it. Taking on both her mother _and_ a magpie on the same day was tempting fate. Instead, she gave the mischievous creature a single wave.

From within the sea of tall grass, a pale hand rose up and returned the greeting.

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat. Clearly amused by the ‘brave, independent’ girl’s face, a pixieish laugh escaped from the shadows.

Enraged, Eleanor lunged forward, wrenching open the curtain of grass and gazing upon a woman her mirror image.

Or rather, the image she would like to see in the mirror. The girl was sat cross-legged, one of her soft hands carefully holding a crown of flowers in the lap of her lilac dress. With a sandy eyebrow raised and the corner of her mouth ending in a smirk, she appeared to be waiting for the red-faced girl to chastise her prank.

However, Eleanor was speechless and unprepared. And all too aware of the grass that stained her dress and the burrs trapped in her hair. “You’re a girl?” was all that left her chapped lips.

“Of course. What did you expect, one of your changelings?” Her accent was tinged with royalty, a harsh sound to the farm girl’s ears. “Daisy Hawkins at your service.”

Eleanor stared at the hand Daisy extended, the same hand she had just believed belonged to a sinister creature of the woods. She realized now that it could belong to something worse.

“So, you’re English.” It was not a question.

“Well I would like to think so. Although I guess right now, I am just Daisy,” she held up the flower crown, “with daisies. Will that be a problem, Miss…”

A moment of hesitation. “Rigby. Eleanor Rigby.”

“Good evening Eleanor.” Her smile rivaled the setting sun. “Would the queen like a crown?”

Fighting against every word her father had said to her, Eleanor sat across from the Englishwoman. Daisy handed her the half-completed daisy chain.

“So, what brings you out into the terrifying wilderness all by your lonesome, Miss Rigby?”

“I just needed to clear my head. And you?”

“Well, Father wanted to drink with Uncle William, and I had no interest in cleaning up after those two.” He fingers looped the ends of a flower stalk around the head of another. “Let me guess, your family is what’s causing the fuzziness in your brain?” She gazed up from her work, two brown eyes staring directly into Eleanor.

“Just… my mother.” Magpies screeched in the distance; Eleanor’s attention drew from her crown to the woods beyond. “We all had to go to a wedding today. It was certainly a lively event.” She couldn’t explain why, but she kept talking, divulging her secrets to this stranger. It was as if Daisy, the tone of her voice or her big eyes, had the ability to draw out Eleanor’s voice. She continued:

“I hate weddings, they’re depressing. The woman is given away from one man to another, forced to live in a shadow of her former self. Siobhan changed after she met my uncle. We used to be friends, but now… I won’t let the same fate overtake me.” In her anger, Eleanor had clenched her fists around the daisy chain, heads bursting off between her fingers.

“So, you won’t let any boys fall in love with you?”

“You sound like my mother.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Daisy’s eyes were large, the light from the falling sun glinting off the brown irises, turning them gold. She was nothing like Eleanor’s mother; Daisy truly cared.

“No man has ever held me dear.” Eleanor threw the broken stems and petals into the grass around her, freeing herself from the obligations of love; proud that she has overcome them. This is why she came to the woods, to disappear and become only a rumor in her household, a ghost in the night. To belong to no one but herself.

“Well well, Miss Rigby, you’re a new breed of woman, aren’t you? A queen without a king,” Daisy raised her floral crown up and placed it on Eleanor’s head. Leaning forward, she plucked a loose barb from the young monarch’s hair. “I like the sound of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[ Harold,](https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/harold-theyre-lesbians) _


	4. Father McKenzie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is significantly longer than the previous few: we're really starting to get into it now.  
>   
>   
>  _Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes._

_18 th of September 1966_

_Something is, most assuredly, amiss in Ballinspittle._

_I have felt a nagging at the corner of my mind since my arrival, but I still cannot place my finger on its exact nature._

_It is as if the village’s citizens each have two lives, separate but concurrent. On the surface, they are cordial and respectful, greeting me as I run to the grocer, striking up small talk. They are kind, God-fearing folk—much like those found in my county before._

_However, their response when I breach uncomfortable topics is… unsettling to say the least. It is more than an outsider—as I no doubt believe I have not yet been truly accepted by all—encroaching on their daily lives._

_A foul spirit has lodged itself into the heart of my parish, the tendons of which pull against the solitary Eleanor Rigby._

_Eleanor Rigby. I write her name once more in order to remember it, to fuse the letters to deepest cortex of my brain. I write Eleanor Rigby so that God above my direct my actions._

_Somehow, I had forgotten her. Now, however, the image of her face has been seared behind my eyes. When I close them, I can only see the alabaster white of her skin, fixed into an rage too complex for me to decipher from such a short encounter…  
  
_

* * *

  
Sunlight streamed in through the window, the lone witness to Ciarán’s homily. Today, he had carefully crafted a retrospective of the Blessed Mother, Mary. The frightened woman, hands clutched tight in her lap, listening attentively to her sacred message from God. The Father would have spread his arm wide, his hands moving in a flourish to the light surrounding them; every particle an article from above.

 _Can you imagine her trepidation?_ The dust shimmered in the air. _What honor, what fear, must she have felt, knowing that her fate was woven into the history of mankind._

However, there was no mankind present today. Only empty pews as Ciarán stood for hours, waiting and hoping yet again, that his parishioners would arrive.

It had been over half a year since the priest had been called to Ballinspittle. In that time, not a single soul had participated in Mass.

He stepped down from the pulpit, folding the yellowed pages of the undelivered sermon into his pocket. The morning had only just begun, but already he needed a rest.

The door to his study creaked loudly, echoing in the vast expanse of ceiling. His shoes found a purchase beneath a row of black Cossacks, appropriately pressed with buttons shined. He rubbed his temples, opening his eyes to catch his reflection in the old mirror beside his bed. It had been here before he arrived.

The man was not without attractiveness, his black hair peppered gingerly with specks of gray. It was not a hard face, but the past several months had forced his smile down into a constant somber frown.

Eight months in Ballinspittle and none had seen his face at the rostrum of the Holy Trinity Church. Not even Tommy showed, too frightened by his parents to go against their wishes. The only time anyone step foot within the hallowed hall was for confession.

Ciarán peaked out through his study door, a look of brief contempt on his face while scrutinizing the wooden booth across the way. The only meaningful connection he had with the folks of Ballinspittle was through the frayed screen as they shared their sins.

They were simple, unproblematic actions: lying to a loved one, putting the family dog outside in a fit of anger, drinking the last of the milk. He would be sat for hours in the cramped box, ears attuned to trivialities, only in common by their lack of malicious intent and effect.

However, he preferred even these listless inconveniences when compared to their shared sin. For every day, without fail and without a sense of irony or ownership of their actions, they all begged for forgiveness for not attending the liturgy or consuming the Eucharist.

They sought penance in completion of a sacrament, undertaken due to their failure to carry out another.

It, quite simply, confounded the aging priest. Although perhaps less, his eyes refocused on the confession both proper, than the sight of an ajar door. He sighed and his knees cracked in unison upon standing up.

He made it about twenty feet before tripping, his sock catching on a curious nail. Luckily, he caught himself on the stone windowsill. Cursing and adding yet another task for him to complete in the old church—two if he counted both the loose nail and the repair of his sock—he gazed up from the sight of his exposed toe to the lawn outside.

It was in that moment that he remembered her. Shawl thrown over her head, hunched over in search for a just morsel of a meal. He pushed his glasses aside and rubbed his closed eyes. Of course, she had been there only a week prior; how had he forgotten her?

Determined to investigate, Ciarán rushed to recover his shoes. The empty pews watched him shuffle and were surprised by his speed. Their last owner was never as quick.

 _If the people do not wish to come to me_ , he thought as he moved out the entryway, _then I shall go to them_. The large church door slammed behind him, sealing the tomb of the Holy Trinity Church. Only silence remained.

Then, from within the deep notches and knots of the aged wooden booth, a sigh escaped. Slowly, a centimeter at a time, the open door closed itself. Confession would have to wait.  
  


* * *

  
Laughter lilted forth from the local pub, drowning out the beating of Ciarán’s heart from his ears. A moment of hesitation, a gulp on the street corner, and then he entered Hurley’s.

“Father! How are you?”

Caoimhe Kelly was the first to notice the clergyman, her head having popped up from behind the counter. The rest of the pubgoers turned to greet Ciarán. His hand fidgeted anxiously against his cross necklace: the bar was busy for a Sunday afternoon.

“Good, good, Mrs. Kelly. How’s Liam?”

“He’s gotten quick, I can tell you that. Still can’t count to ten though, but we’re working on it.”

“Well what do you expect Caoimhe?” An aged voice, like whiskey, shouted from the end of the bar and Niall O’Leary downed the rest of his pint. “He’s only but a wain, no older than some of the swill you sell back there!” Laughter racked his body, head tipped backwards as lines crisscrossed his wizened face.

“You keep talking like that Niall, and I’ll tell Maeve where you’ve been spending your Sunday mornings!”

“You listen up, she’ll do it! Just look at what the ol’ mot did to me when she found out!” Sean Carroll raised his right leg up from his seat against the wall, or what was left of it—Mr. Carroll has lost everything below his knee from shrapnel during the war.

The whole bar erupted in roars. For a moment, Ciarán felt an odd sense of companionship, as if his presence was not an intrusion into their daily lives but an occurrence to be celebrated. This feeling came over him often: he never lasted long.

“So, Father, what brings you down to my little spot?” Caoimhe wiped at the counter as she spoke, always at work. “You fancy a drink?”

The bottles on the shelves behind her shown in the afternoon light. “Eh, not today, thank you.” Everyone had their vices. “I just had a few questions I was hoping you’d be able to help me with, as you all,” Ciarán motioned around the room of chatting drinkers, “seem to know about the going-on around the town.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I can, but know I’m a trustworthy sort, so I won’t be sharing what’s been told to me in confidence. You understand, Father?”

He understood all too well. “Of course, Mrs. Kelly. I was wondering about a particular woman. Short, older, head covered in a shawl. She was in front of the church last week… looking in need of alms.” He paused before decided to leave out the specifics of her visit: trust and all that. “I hadn’t seen her around before.”

The chitchat in the pub was quickly replaced with low whispers.

“This woman, Father McKenzie, did you speak with her?” Caoimhe’s full attention was directed towards the priest.

“No, but I was looking to. If anyone could point me in her direction—”

“She ain’t nothing but bad luck, Father, you stay away from her!” The lines around Niall’s face were gone, replaced with deep creases around his scrunched forehead.

“What do you mean?”

The pub began to speak all at once, advice and rumors flung from every corner.

“She’s been in this county longer than anyone but is _too good_ to associate with any of us.”

“Only time I’ve seen her is at my cousin’s funeral; been told she shows up at every time someone dies.”

“Ay, I’ve heard that she threw herself into her mother’s grave when she died.”

“No no, you’re wrong, it was her _sister’s_ grave!”

“Always wears that shawl, I don’t think anyone knows what she looks like, everyone says something different. A thousand faces she has.”

A deafening bang rang from the front of the pub. Once. Twice. Every head turned to the ancient figure, eyes falling on his shillelagh as the sound echoed.

“You listen hear, boy: forget that woman. She’s cursed.”

Ciarán should have been offended, but the man must have been nearly twice his age. His fingers warped around the knotted wood of his club; his eyes a stormy grey. They bore holes into Ciarán’s form, moving only once Caoimhe spoke up.

“Now, Seamus let’s not start this again…”

“Bah, I know what you all think of me, just some old blatherskite, but my Da told me about that she-devil. I _know_ what it truly is.” The dark grey of Seamus Graham’s eyes shifted back to Ciarán. Gazing into them, he realized they must have once been as dark as blackthorn wood—now, a soft white film clouded them. It did not diminish their striking effect.

“That beast is a solitary fairy and it murdered my father’s love. It enticed her out into the wood with song, a temptress of the night, and slew her down. It ravaged her face, boy—you could barely recognize the body. If you cherish your voice and your skin, McKenzie, you’ll never speak of _it_ again: one word and it will steal them both from you.”

The old man slammed his shillelagh to the floor again, punctuating his point.

And with that, Hurley’s pub returned to normal: the show was over. Voices and drinks were raised, Ciarán once again feeling like he did not belong. Thanking Caoimhe, he ducked out of the establishment, taking only his hat and the words of Seamus Graham with him.  
  


* * *

  
On the road back towards the Holy Trinity Church, Tommy rushed to meet Ciarán.

“Father McKenzie, I was just coming to find you. What were you doing in town?” The young boy trailed next to him, beaming up at his mentor—full of questions as always. _Perhaps behind those eyes_ , Ciarán thought, _there may be some answers as well_.

“Well Tommy, I was inquiring about a certain villager. Tell me, do you know anything about an older woman wearing a shawl that hides her face?”

Tommy stopped short, his scuffed shoes glued to the gravel path. Ciarán had never seen that particular look on the boy’s face before, one of pure terror.

“Do… do you mean Eleanor Rigby, sir?”

A name. Finally, a clue, something more than just a brief sighting or a drinking tale.

“Eleanor Rigby? What do you know about her?”

“I know I’m not suppose to talk about her.” He kicked at a rock beside his foot, dislodging it from its home. “But she’s very scary. Ma says I shouldn’t speak to her, that she’ll gobble me up.” Reaching down, he picked up the rock, inspecting it. Having peaked over his shoulder, he pocketed the stone. “I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t think I’m allowed to say anything else.”

But Ciarán felt so close to unlocking the secret of Ballinspittle! To be able to cure the mass of secrets that hung at its core. He couldn’t relent now.

“Would you feel more comfortable speaking at the church, Tommy? Nothing can harm you there.” The boy bit his lip in thought. A second. Two. And then nodded slowly.

The two proceeded forward in silence, both in thought. One contemplating horror, bedtime stories that kept him staring at the centimeter of space between his door and the floor: the other, abuzz, the hand of his mind grasping out towards flame, flickering in the wind.

A breeze shook both from their thoughts and a loud greeting in the distance broke their silence. Colm O’Dwyer waved from the cemetery, leaning casually on a wooden cross. Ciarán shouted back, but Tommy remained silent. The expression of discomfort and dread had not left his face. Perhaps, the Father was pushing him too hard.

“We can talk later Tommy, should we go say hello to Mr. O’Dwyer?”

He shook his head, peering out at the tall man standing in the church cemetery. “I don’t like Colm. He’s… weird.”

“Now, that’s not the attitude we have towards our neighbors, is it Tommy? _Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you._ ”

“Yes, Father but…” By an open grave, Colm reached into his pocket and removed a paper roll. Bringing it to his mouth, he flicked a piece of candy onto his tongue. “He scares me.”

The talk of Eleanor must have startled him, frying his nerves and leaving him overcome with fear. Ciarán knew he would get no more information from the shaking child.

Instead, he left him with the statue of the Virgin Mary before the church. Glancing over his shoulder, Ciarán beheld the sight of Tommy, beneath the powerful gaze of Mary. The Mother would protect him, of this he was sure.

Colm was gently crunching down on the candy as Ciarán approached. The carpenter offered out the sleeve, but Ciarán refused. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Don’t mind me, McKenzie, just fixing up ol’ Tomas’s grave here.”

Ciarán always enjoyed Colm’s directness, opting to skip over the pleasantries to get to the matters at hand. It was a welcome change of pace from the town’s idle chatter. With Colm, it felt like conversations had direction, a purpose. One that, this time, Ciarán would need to steer towards a specific end.

Colm knelt down, chisel in hand, skillfully recarving _Tomas Buckley_ into the weathered pine. He tended to the cemetery better than even Ciarán.

A trained carpenter, he was known for crafting sturdy end tables and repairing dresser drawers. In his free time, however, he was a welcomed member of the church auxiliary staff: Colm was responsible for the creation of all caskets and the upkeep to the markers. He had even fixed the confession booth’s door, free of charge.

It was difficult for Ciarán to understand Tommy’s apprehensive of the man. Although, it could be said that Colm did have a ways to go to become a better Christian: he neither joined in Mass, nor showed up for Confession. Perhaps that’s why Ciarán was fond of the man, as he never begged forgiveness for the sins he committed, just put out more good than he did bad.

“Thank you, Colm, I was just about to call you about that.”

“Oh, there was no need, Tomas and I go way back: I always keep an eye on him.”

“Good man. Say,” Ciarán’s mind began to pull itself back to the issue gnawing at his brain, "what can you tell me about Eleanor Rigby?”

“Eleanor? That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Well, not one spoken in more than a whisper anyway. An odd woman, that’s to be sure.”

“Odd? The people of Ballinspittle made her out to be the Devil incarnate.”

“I bet they did. Please forgive them, McKenzie, Ballinspittle has had all sorts horrors at its borders. The Brits, the Provos, the Germans—we’ve been afraid for so longer that now we have to make something up to direct it at. Eleanor has become their monster in the night.”

The breath that escaped Ciarán’s lips contained both the last of his anxiety and his excitement. But why? What reason did he have to be disappointed in this discovery? _There was still a woman in need of aid_ , he assured himself, _there was still the beast of cruelty to overcome_.

“Good to hear. I will admit, even I was startled by the stories of a fiend at the edge of the woods. But the scariest thing in Ballinspittle is Mrs. Kelly’s stew!” The kindly Father chuckled at his own joke, but Colm remained motionless.

“Well, you’re wrong about that.” He rose up from his position next to the cross, his job done. Standing, he was a good two or three heads taller than Ciarán, his figure imposing as he spoke. “There is most certainly a monster that haunts this village.”

Ciarán gulped loudly, his palms beginning to sweat. Before he could inquire further, Colm’s face broke out in a massive smile, his teeth like polished stones.

“McKenzie, your face! It looks as if you’re about to boke! I’m sorry my friend, I couldn’t resist.”

The laughter subsided, Ciarán’s face continued to glow red. “Ahem, yes. Colm, would you happen to know where Mrs. Rigby lives?”

The carpenter twitched slightly, a brief movement that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course, I may be one of the few that cares to remember. She is down that a way, about a mile or so:” his chisel extended from his hand, pointing towards an old path by the outskirt of the woods. “But she doesn’t take too kindly to visitors.”

“Thank you for the concern, Colm, but God guides my hand.” He only nodded in response, a rhythmic up and down, a gesture that said more than words would have.

A moment later, Ciarán had reunited with Tommy, advising him to head home for the day. When told that he would be visiting Eleanor, Tommy’s muscled tightened, his hand finding its way to the stone in his pocket. Assured in much the same way that Colm was, Tommy hesitantly took the path back home.

He picked up his pace upon looking back, however, when the carpenter waved goodbye.

Alone, Ciarán followed the imaginary line of Colm’s chisel, preparing himself to meet the enigmatic Eleanor Rigby.  
  


* * *

  
Tucked beneath the branches of a large willow, Eleanor Rigby’s house was in a state of disrepair. Once, a long, _long_ time ago, it had been awe-inspiring, a stone monument to wealth, to class— now buckling under the weight of itself.

The roots of the large neighboring tree had pushed through a section of the stone wall. The wall itself, where it hadn’t been toppled, was chipped and covered in moss, barely containing the overgrown lawn it fenced in.

A burst of color to the right of the house were the remains of what once must have been a garden, now a series of daisies, peonies, and gardenias struggling for sunlight against a mass of roses. The great amalgamation of twisted thorns smothered its lesser sisters, content in its great trove of nutrients, gained from the decay of the others’ petals.

The metal gate that guarded the home had fallen off its post, snoozing while the elements ransacked the property. Ciarán carefully stepped over the ironwork as he approached the house.

 _Surely, this couldn’t be the place?_ , he pondered. But he had followed Colm’s directions to their fruition, and there was no other building in sight. He silently walked to the front door, his spotless shoes caressed by weeds and pebbles.

 _Knock-knock_. Silence. _Knock-knock_.

Again, nothing by the trill of crickets in the yard—it was more their house than Eleanor’s. Ciarán felt foolish, tricked once more by the affable carpenter. He had turned, prepared to leave, when he caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Refusing to allow his trip to have been in vain, Ciarán followed.

Traveling around the side of the delipidated house (and very nearly pricking himself on the horde of ravenous roses), Ciarán was greeted by a lone hare. Its beady eyes glared directly at the interloper, its frustration evident in the twitching of its nose.

“Er, sorry about that, little one. I thought you were… something else.”

The creature, appeased with the apology, rushed into a bush alongside the house. Ciarán froze on the spot. Aside from its relatively large size, untended to like the rest of the greenery, the bush sat directly below a window. One which peered directly into the dimly light house—and upon the hunched figure of Eleanor Rigby.

She appeared much the same as she had the week prior, in a faded apron and dusty shoes. Details sprung to his mind that he had previously forgotten, even thought it had been such a recent encounter. However, her shawl was only wrapped around her shoulders, leaving her head bare.

Leaning towards a mirror by the front door, Eleanor Rigby dipped her hand into a jar of makeup, applying a thick layer onto her face. The foundation caked itself around the edges, a noticeable difference in color between its farthest edge and the skin that crept around it. Her actions were slow, methodically, the hand of a woman who had completed this task a thousand times.

 _BANG_.

Ciarán turned to see the hare scurrying away from the mess it made, having knocked over an old hoe leaning against the house, its metal head smacking into the surrounding stone wall.

Frightened by the sound, Ciarán was woefully unprepared for the sight he returned to. For in the window, standing by the front door, Eleanor Rigby had shifted her body towards Ciarán. At this vantage, the panicked priest could see the extant of her routine: her face was covered completely in white paste, broken up only by a gash of red at her lips and two blue eyes set in the middle.

Ciarán could think only of fine china. A face like porcelain, a white base of clay and bone, painted with a blue the color of the sky. However, in the center, a deep red like blood, the only remains of a meal thoroughly enjoyed.

There was no expression on her face, just a flicker of wonder in her eyes. Until:

“Mrs. Rigby?” Ciarán choked out a greeting.

Then, a flash of anger, her crimson lips curled to show lipstick coating her tea-stained teeth. With a speed far greater than what her age should have allowed, Eleanor Rigby darted across the room, drawing the moth-bitten curtains that separated her and Ciarán McKenzie.

The Father waited for hours, knocking on the door and offering his deepest apologies. Nobody responded. There was only the echo of his pleas and the gentle nibbling of a hare, pleased that the roses tasted so sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eleanor looked like [ this](https://media.istockphoto.com/photos/mime-artist-gesturing-with-his-hand-picture-id527958899?k=6&m=527958899&s=612x612&w=0&h=p0bxWEsp0rWYO21-2OkJoT_iKkyxMrTg0yKG4LIukCk=).  
>   
>   
>  _CW// brief reference to fatal violence against a woman; mentions of clergymen and the authority of the Catholic Church._


	5. Eleanor Rigby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes._

_21 June 1842_

_Dearest diary,_

_Have you ever seen something you could not explain? I know you are but paper and ink—and the latter is more of me than of you—but perhaps sometime after your creation (and before mine) you glimpsed such a baffling sight as I was greeted to this afternoon._

_Today, we all gathered round to watch Mary weep. The crowd bustled and pushed me away, but I saw her for a second. I am not certain if she was truly crying (perhaps it was just the way the light hit her eye?), but everyone seemed to believe so._

_They all stood around and did nothing. What would God do if he caught us, having snuck down to our little hamlet? Would he have disliked what He saw?_

_I would not blame Him if the sight disgusted him._

_There would have been very little that even He could do, however. It turns out it is harder to leave than one might think. There is money to consider, the threat of familial violence, the pain of saying goodbye to a friend._

_But she is not to know about that, so best keep your wee mouth shut! I will not hesitate to burn you up in the hearth, Mamaí be damned…_

* * *

Mrs. O’Shea’s house was a stone’s throw from the village center.

This measurement had been rigorously tested by a young Eleanor, who had spent much of her childhood chucking small polished rocks from the grassy circle at her door. A large pot beside the stairs was her target, and she was proud to admit that by age eight, she could sink a stone of any size into its open maw without fail.

There may have also been a broken window or two prior to mastering the skill, but Eleanor was not sure of this fact. Mrs. O’Shea, on the other hand, was quite certain the count stood at five. To repay the cost, the young woman had been tasked with doing the older’s errands—years of mind-numbing and never-ending busywork followed.

Eleanor, no longer a child but also not yet a woman, strolled past the outer edge of the center, her foot gently nudging the stones that encircled it. She carried a basket of groceries in her arms, which we tickled by the soft leaves of carrots atop.

The debt long repaid, Mrs. O’Shea was surprised to find Eleanor at her doorstep a month prior, asking for her old work, in exchange for pay this time. Surprised _and_ embittered: Mrs. O’Shea cursed the crucifix hanging aside her door after closing it. She believed she had seen the last of that rambunctious girl.

Nevertheless, she had agreed to the arrangement. Her hip no longer wished to make the rounds every morning as it used to, and besides, the young should be aiding their elders. Best to use their youth for something productive, to keep those idle hands at work.

Eleanor knocked at Mrs. O’Shea’s door, taking one peak down into the urn as she waited—the bottom was filled with tiny stones, she noted with a grin.

“Miss Rigby?” A wrinkled hand eked out from behind the doorframe, powdered white fingers testing the sunlight before two beady eyes followed suit. Mrs. O’Shea’s wide face was tired, aged. “You’re back sooner than expected. Well, you may not have gotten any taller, but at least your legs move faster now.” Her tongue was not at all hindered by that age.

“I have done a lot of growing up, Mrs. O’Shea.” The basket faltered slightly in her grasp as she faked a smile. _Glass houses, you old—_. She aimed her silent curses into the ceramic pot of gravel beside her.

“Well, I’ll take those groceries, Eleanor.” Hands brushed lightly against one another as the basket passed the home’s threshold. “And my change?”

Eleanor’s fake smile grew larger. “Not today, Deirdre raised her prices on carrots.”

“I don’t like that Deirdre. Ever since she caught Reilly Carroll’s eye, she’s been quite prideful of herself.” The older woman scolded out into the distance. Eleanor coughed quietly to bring her back. “Ah yes, your payment.”

She reached back into the dark house, placing the basket down unseen. She returned with a handful of coins—a small collection of farthings and ha’pennies. Eleanor accepted the meager amount gratefully.

“Now run along and don’t you be getting into any trouble.”

“Of course not, Mrs. O’Shea.” The woman closed the door on Eleanor’s face in response. She sighed and proceeded to slip the coins into her apron, right next to the change Deirdre had given her earlier.

On her way back into town, she paused to scoop up a smooth stone and tossed it at Mrs. O’Shea’s house. It fell with a thunk among its long-lost brethren.

Nodding once, the hint of a smirk on her lips, Eleanor began the walk back home. She slipped her hands into her apron, counting the coins within as she strolled along.

The town’s center was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon. The O'Shaughnessy’s bakery was bustling, Fiona Kelly pulling her daughter in one hand from the store, her other arm delicately cradling a warm loaf in a handkerchief. She raised her head in greeting and Eleanor responded in kind.

Her hands remained in the apron, counting silently. It wasn’t a lot, but it would all add up—slowly but surely. Lost in thought, she nearly collided with Brian Graham on his horse, trotting through as if he owned the town.

Brian shouted as he reared the horse, looking down at her disdainfully. Eleanor apologized once and then ambled ahead silently; she would have cursed him if not for the fact that his family was wealthy. He may not have been able to lay claim to Ballinspittle, but the Grahams had enough money to buy everyone that did.

 _Yet another reason to escape this place_. In fact, there was nothing in the village that beckoned Eleanor to stay, only forces to push her out.

A husky laugh broke out from the Copper Harp, escaping into the humid air from the open front door. Dillon Hurley, cheeks red, rushed out of the building from the source of the laughter.

Eleanor could tell, even from her vantage across the street, who the troublemaker was: glancing through the Harp’s thick paned windows confirmed her suspicions.

Punching Aidan Graham with one hand and grasping a pint of beer in the other, Daisy’s head was held back in joy and jest.

A combination of emotions fought for supremacy in Eleanor’s stomach. One of elation for spotting her friend, who see had not seen in days, too busy working on the Quinn’s farm. The other, a lumbering feeling that she could not properly name—she knew only that she wished to march into the Harp and punch Aidan herself.

Rooted to her post across the street, she neither rushed in to meet her friend nor assaulted her rival for attention, instead becoming spotted by the young brunette, who waved eagerly from inside the pub.

Before Eleanor could return the greeting, Daisy polished off her pint, thrusted the tankard into Aidan’s unprepared hands, and rushed outside.

“Queen Eleanor!” She bustled across the street, no horses daring to interrupt her path. Skidding to a stop, she took a deep bow, her arm flaring out dramatically. Holding the bow, she held her head up, a smirk cut into her face.

Eleanor gazed into Daisy’s hazel eyes, searching for the light haze or dilation that often follows those who drink too many beers at the Cooper Harp. However, there was nothing there but a sincere excitement, an incorruptible joy; Daisy always seemed to maintain complete control over her actions and person.

“Out running errands for the commonfolk again?”

“Someone has to. Without my aid this town would crumble into dust; I do it all from the goodness of my heart,” Eleanor lied.

“What a kindhearted and just ruler you are.” Finally, she rose from her bow, having held it long enough for the gesture to leave its impact. “Heading back home then? Then please, let me escort you.”

“What about your merry band?” Eleanor tilted her head towards the group in the Harp, her eyes flickering over the man still holding two tankards.

Daisy swatted the question hanging in the air between them. “They’re have just as much fun without me, I’m sure.” She leaned in close, hand shielding her mouth from invisible eavesdroppers. “They may be easier to befriend when drunk, but they also become quite the bores,” she whispered, before falling back into that symphony of deep laugher.

Then, in one fell swoop, Daisy sucked the revelry back into her lungs and grasped Eleanor’s arm, leading her away from the Copper Harp and the crowd waving goodbye inside.

The path back home felt smaller than before, walking side by side, and the sun, hot upon their backs, made sweat bead up on Eleanor’s neck and palms. The clouds, having hung in the sky since morning, dare not move from their position in front of the sun, for fear the young girl would realize her error. Instead, they let her continue her life in ignorance.

“There was an awful lot of people back there.” Eleanor broke the silence, gentle as it was.

“Was there? I didn’t realize. Honestly, I’ve seen many more in the pubs back in Bristol. Although the company is far less pleasant.” Eleanor could never tell if Daisy missed home, or if the visit to her family in Ballinspittle was where she really wanted to be. She could never find the courage to ask her directly.

“I saw Dillon running out earlier. It didn’t look like he was having a good time.”

“Oh, ol’ Hurley? We were just joking that if he didn’t like what the Harp had to offer, he should open up his own pub. And then Aidan up and said ‘with what money?’ I’ll admit it was a bit mean-spirited.” The mention of the Grahams again caused Eleanor to clench her fist.

“You know the Hurley’s luck in farming isn’t anything they can control, Daisy.”

“I know, I know, nothing here is anybody’s fault. But I’ll admit, I hope he does open up a bar; I think he’ll run it swimmingly.”

Once more, Eleanor questioned her friend’s intentions, but there was nothing to suppose the statement was anything less than authentic. She had begun to believe that Daisy had never told a lie before. Or, and this thought passed so quickly through her mind that she did not have time to identify it (nor the inclination to explore it if she had), every word from Daisy’s mouth was tinged with dishonesty. But if she herself was a lie, then it was one that Eleanor enjoyed being with.

“I just hope he doesn’t run too far off in his upset,” Daisy continued, eyes focused on into the distance. They were by the outskirts of the village proper now, paths branching out to the countryside. “I would hate to see him taken away.”

Eleanor stopped short, incredulous. “Oh, don’t tell me _you_ of all people believe in that hogwash, Daisy!”

“Well I don’t know Eleanor, but it is awfully worrying, the disappearances I mean.”

“I can think of a few dozen reasons why people are leaving! There doesn’t have to be a monster snatching them away. Come now, I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“I’m not.” Daisy’s scuffed brown shoes were planted firm in the gravely earth, her legs two thin tree trunks in the midday breeze. “But they still haven’t found Brandon and he was but a child!”

“Daisy,” Eleanor reached out and took the slightly trembling girl’s hands, “I spoke to Mr. Quinn yesterday and he said they had family in Kinsale they visit during the summer. He’s certain that Brandon must have taken the trip after the two got into a fight.”

“Kinsale? That’s close by, isn’t it?”

Eleanor nodded her head, attempting to push her own doubts down. Kinsale was nearly ten kilometers away, and walking the distance by foot was a ordeal for any adult. Brandon had been five years old. _Brandon_ is _five years old_ , Eleanor corrected herself.

“He’s just gone to join the rest of the Quinn clan in Kinsale. I’m sure Mr. Quinn will hear back with news back shortly.”

Daisy’s hands were ice cold in Eleanor’s moist palms. It was easy to forget that the Englishwoman hadn’t been with her in Ballinspittle since childhood, that she was a visitor to his village. To her, everything felt foreign. Eleanor secretly envied her.

“But, what about the others? Where did they—”

Daisy’s question was cut off by the shout of Dillon Hurley bounding towards them, arms waving frantically.

“Ladies, you’ve got to come quickly! It’s a miracle!”

Dillon’s stout body rushed to close the distance, panting and kneeling forward when he reached them. Between heavy breathes, he tried to explain himself, but only words came out, a fractured sentence: “A crowd… crying… the church!”

Finally, he relented, instead deciding to point down the farthest path, where the Holy Trinity Church would be found. When the girls nodded, acknowledging the message with wide, confused eyes, he took one more quick breath, and bolted towards the village.

Eleanor and Daisy briefly looked at one another, their expressions mirrored on the other’s face. Without speaking, the two rushed off down the path Dillon had pointed at.

Before she even arrived at the church, Eleanor could hear the commotion. A cacophony of voices assailed her ears, the source a mass of moving bodies blocking entry to the Holy Trinity Church. _No_ , Eleanor reassessed the situation as she and Daisy moved ever closer, _they are surrounding someone out front_.

The swarm pulsated, bodies moving in and out of the crowd, people pushing, shoving to gain a better look at the central figure. With her shorter stature, Eleanor quickly ducked beneath outstretched arms, pulling Daisy behind her.

Before they could reach the heart of the fervor, a shout separated from the others and directed itself towards Daisy. Accompanying the exclamation was a face—Mr. Quinn’s—and a sturdy arm, which elbowed Daisy aside. She fell backwards and if her impact had made a sound, it could not be heard over the incessant roaring.

“Stay back! _You_ don’t get to see her.”

Mr. Quinn’s voice, which Eleanor had heard just yesterday, was no longer quiet or melancholic. It burst forth from deep within him, from a well that was far more than simply despair for his missing son. It felt, to Eleanor, that the man before her was someone else entirely, a personification of rage wearing Mr. Quinn’s face as a mask. He raised his hand, the one that had helped her tend to the sheep, and brought it down on Daisy’s fallen form. “You would have had her burned if given the chance!”

His open hand never reached its mark. Dirty fingers grasped at his arm, pinning it in place—an undeserving punishment stayed. Following the path of his arm, Eleanor saw the man’s face was punctuated with a grin, his teeth white and smooth like a river reflecting a cloudy sky. Mr. Quinn descended back into the wriggling horde behind him.

“Best be careful now girls, I’d rather you didn’t see an early grave.” The man reached out for Daisy, who accepted his hand hesitantly. She dusted herself off, blades of grass sticking to the back of her dress.

“Go on ahead, Eleanor, you can make it to the front.”

“But—”

“I said _go_ , I’ll be fine.”

Eleanor peeked over her shoulder once as she dipped through the crowd, watching as their savior drew a roll of candy for Daisy out of his dusty jacket pocket.

Expertly weaving ahead, her foot nearly squashed beneath others twice, she finally burst through to the epicenter of the crowd’s ecstasy. Positioned upon a stone podium, clothed in painted blues and reds, was a wooden statue of the Mother Mary.

Her body swayed alongside the movement of the crowd, which began as a gentle wave but rapidly became a jostling; in seconds, she was tossed back to the edge of the circle. The rapturous clamor in the air made her feel dizzy, and the pounding of bodies against her own impacted her ability to see the statue proper.

For a moment, in the brief seconds before she was expunged from the scene, she swore Mary was weeping.

Having returned to the outskirts, shaking and alone with no Daisy to steady her, she was no longer sure of what she had witnessed. Instead, her head swiveled left and right, searching for her friend. Her eyes fell upon Daisy’s back, sitting atop the stone wall that bordered the church’s cemetery.

“Daisy?” Eleanor approached, leaving the bedlam behind her. By the wall, the commotion was quieter, but no less impactful. “Daisy, are you alright?”

The brunette turned her body towards Eleanor, the stones beneath gracefully holding the weight. Her eyes were cloudy, but organic, like honey fresh from the hive. _Like tree sap_ , Eleanor compared. Daisy said nothing, simply patted the stone wall beside her.

It was cold beneath her and she realized, as the stone touched her skin, that it had been overcast nearly the entire day. The two sat in silence as shouts bellowed in the distance.

Daisy shivered in the breeze, yet her face was still flush from the ordeal. She looked young, younger than Eleanor had ever seen her before. It was so easy for her to forget Daisy was a stranger here, a foreigner. Eleanor secretly pitied her.

Reaching down, Eleanor lightly picked up a stone, inspecting it in her hands. She glanced ahead and chucked the rock into an open grave. It settled snuggly into the dark earth. Beside her, Daisy did the same, tossing the first piece her hand landed upon.

Back and forth, the two went, their backs turned on the villagers who were steadily joining the sight of a miracle. _Thunk_. _Thunk_. _Thunk_. A series of stones fell into the open maw of the earth, each one landing perfectly among the others.

Nestled beneath the avalanche, the second item thrown glittered in the slowly fading sunlight—a coin, a gift that the girl had no need of. _Thunk. Thunk_. In time, not even the sun could reach it. _Thunk_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do any of these names sound familiar to you? No, just me? Alright, if you say so.  
>   
>   
>  _CW// attempted physical violence towards a young woman._


End file.
